The Empty Heart
by I'm Nova
Summary: (...not so much anymore). The promised Johnlock version of Sherlock's return. I know, I'm starting too many fics, but all of them will be completed. Eventually. I promise. M to push myself into finally writing some sexy times...eventually. Again.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Nothing mine, so don't sue.

A.N. And here is the Johnlock version of the Return. Well, future Johnlock. First chapter and having them all over each other would have been a bit hurried, wouldn't it? As always, betaed/Musaed by Ennui Enigma, and not britpicked. Oh, and I'd like to apologize to Ronald Adair for the little twist.

The empty heart

It's done. Well, done but for one single strand of Moriarty's now dismantled criminal web. That one is in London, though, so Sherlock is allowed _(has)_ to go back. The endgame is so close he can practically taste it, taste the freedom to see John again, to show himself again ('a genius needs an audience' – and the audience Sherlock is interested in has a full name). It's making him jittery.

But there is still one more obstacle ('you gotta love a sniper'). Moran is the closest thing Moriarty had to John and crack shot is just one of the similarities between the two ex-soldiers. Sherlock isn't taking the risk. Not now. Not after three eternal years spent making sure they ('John... Mrs. Hudson... Lestrade') are safe. The only problem is that he does – risk it, in the end.

He's disguised as one of his homeless network, ratty old jeans and a faded hoodie, everything way too big for him (that's easy) and with a whim of ironic accuracy he dyed his hair blonde. It's the easiest way to be both overlooked by the majority of people and draw no suspicion by Moran's goons when he approaches them to gather data. He's just hungry (often literally; not that it matters) and wants to know if there's anything he can do to earn a bit of money. At the worst, they'll shoo him away.

He has his chance because Moran has just disposed of an associate in money laundering who became a little too greedy. Sherlock is sure Moran did it himself. He wouldn't need to, now that he's top dog, but perhaps he wanted to make sure his skills wouldn't rust, or he was bored, or he just likes killing? The firearm used is peculiar, clever – a rifle whose bullet marks masquerade as if from a very short-range gun. Such falsification turned the case into a deceptive locked-room mystery that is making NSY run in circles. (Not that such is new).

Sherlock knows the rifle is Moriarty's gift to his favourite sniper. Honestly, it would have been simpler for Moran to use a common rifle. His connection to Adair (the money launderer) was covert enough he wouldn't be suspected anyway. No, turning this into a useless riddle by using the firearm Jim gave him is surely significant. But the detective wonders what it exactly entails. Fact: the three year anniversary of St. Barts' show is fast approaching. So there are two possibilities.

One: Moran misses his boss. He created a mystery because if there is a hereafter from which souls can know what happens on Earth, Jim would certainly like to see this. Moran might lack morals, but religious teachings imparted in childhood can surface at the oddest times. Using that particular firearm would be an act of homage, a way to feel closer to Jim. In a word, sentimental (Sherlock would have mocked before but now can't without being a hypocrite – and that is Mycroft's area of expertise anyway).

Two: the riddle is meant for him. It's an intentional clue. His worst fears are true. He needs to work faster.

Sherlock is lurking around the crime scene, wishing he could just go in and start reprimanding the forensic team and everyone else like they evidently deserve, when in the crowd of bystanders he spots someone. John.

He experiences tunnel vision like never before, not even on those cases with an especially interesting corpse. Everything but John fades away, and what he sees hurts. This is not John consulting on a case (he'd do better than the lot of them, so why doesn't the police just ask him?), this is John indulging in a bloodless kind of masochism. It's all in that vaguely lost, haunted look. He's come because Sherlock would have liked this (and Sherlock would have if he didn't know the solution from the very start), and in the off-chance ghosts existed (they don't, don't be an idiot, John) the most likely place to find Sherlock's ghost would be at someone else's crime scene. It wouldn't be an entirely wrong assumption.

But really, John, the bloody cane? Again? You know the treatment for that is adrenaline in regular doses, so even without me to lead the chase why wouldn't you find your own way to ensure its availability?

Sherlock knows he's responsible for the bags under John's eyes. It's not just for giving him ample material for nightmares. If he'd just told John the experimental results of many a late night concert (John's sleep cycles gets better with music, especially Mozart), he could have put in a CD and spared himself a few nightmares by now. In the past, Sherlock's playing had really been too loud, failing to consider John's lightness of sleep during REM. He'd never thought to justify himself by speaking of his experiment when his friend berated him for the 3AM concerts. In a word, John looks awful, and it's Sherlock's fault.

John's wanderings are slowly but surely bringing him nearer to his friend, and Sherlock has no idea what to do. Reason says run, run and hide, because it's too soon. He can't reveal himself yet. What if John recognizes him, here out in the open? What if someone else realizes the truth - there's bound to be someone on Moran's payroll around. He can't ruin this now.

But for once he can't obey his logic's diktat. He's paralyzed, his feet feel nailed to the pavement. He looks and looks, getting more and more rigid, until a distracted John crashes into him, sending them both sprawling. Sherlock stands, helping John get up, handing him his cane and the wallet, which slipped from his pocket (he just can't leave his friend on the ground) so quickly John doesn't have time to get a good look at him. The detective bolts like a lightning as soon as John's upright.

Freud would have had a field day with them today as he determined whose subconscious engineered the accident (Ids are clever things, and he wouldn't put past the doctor's to latch onto Sherlock's presence and get him without his conscious' say). Sherlock's Id (the man doesn't have an oversized Ego like most claim. His Ego is the tiniest a grown man has ever exhibited in fact. Instead, he's all Id/Instincts and wants or Superego/Control) is exhibiting textbook behaviour. The accident made John lose his keys. Instead of giving them back, Sherlock pocketed them himself. So the moment he slows down enough to notice this, he really has no choice but to go back to John, right?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Obviously. Still betaed by Ennui Enigma, aka Patience. Errors are the only thing mine.

Sherlock's mind is reeling for a bit, after the encounter with his doctor, but finally details come back online. Details like the weight of keys that weren't there before. He knows these keys. _Why didn't John move out? Has he found another flatmate_? He berates himself for his idiocy all the way home (not his; not anymore) and is quick enough to catch John still at the door, trying to materialize his lost possession before giving up and ringing the bell. He approaches slowly, proffering the item with a soft spoken , "I took them by mistake…wasn't thinking," and John takes them. He offers him a cup of tea as thanks. He doesn't ask why Sherlock didn't give them back before if he followed him home, or how the hell he knew where to find John if he didn't. Perhaps he thinks Sherlock belongs to the Homeless Network and recognized him.

Sherlock should really, really refuse John's offer and run. He has already spoken to him and there's only so much a hood and bright hair can do to keep John from recognizing him. But, it's John and 221B and tea. Sherlock is nodding yes before he even catches himself doing it. He follows because it's easier than explaining he didn't mean to agree.

He hovers in the sitting room while John busies himself in the kitchen, not daring to sit down. It's not like he's going to stay. He analyzes the room. No sign of another flatmate. The empty spaces caused by the removal of his things (in a broad sense, if the London AZ absence is anything to go by) stand out starkly.

John comes back silently. Sherlock is too agitated to play his role well enough so he feigns being distracted (or maybe curious about the place) so much so that he didn't realize the man's entrance. In hindsight, it was a terrible idea.

The lanky, apparently absorbed figure reminds John terribly of his lost friend. He places the cup down on the table by him without a word – pure instinct. When the stranger takes it without a word or even a glance – the resemblance is so strong that it takes John's breath away. The lean stranger's nostrils flare, even so slightly, enjoying the brew's aroma. It's too much. Half with his Captain stop-ignoring-me voice, half strangled by unruly emotion, the doctor surrenders to what must be this delusion superimposing itself over his guest, and calls, "Sherlock!" He doesn't care if he proves himself crazy. What he doesn't expect is the oblique glance that comes his way. Well, the glance is probably justifiable (checking if his psychotic break is dangerous, probably), but the shade of these eyes is not. They've fought over his eye colour in the past when Sherlock would stand by mirror an John would have insisted that they were more aptly described as hooloovoo (and had to educate his friend on Douglas Adams as a result). It can't be all a coincidence.

The punch is so swift it surprises John too and he's the one who threw it in the first place. Scalding hot tea and fragile cup fly to the floor. It doesn't stop there though. He presses on, piling attacks on his resurrected – and amazingly unresisting – friend. He growls random words, 'bastard' and 'bloody sadist' and 'you madman'.

"John," the sleuth chokes out after a particularly vicious blow. "John, can I explain why I did it first? You can continue afterwards." He's being honest. He'd let John continue to beat him if it got him any closer to forgiveness. Closer to having his friend back.

"Ok. Say it," the doctor concedes, curt and bitter, and he doesn't have to say 'you better make it a good explanation', because it's in his body language, in how the fight is still definitely not out of his posture.

Sherlock swallows back the, "I fell for you," that he almost said. Moriarty wasn't an actor. He was a bad, sappy screenwriter. A surprisingly keen eyed, sappy screenwriter. Instead, the detective utters, "Once, Mycroft said 'all lives end; all hearts are broken." His voice is soft now. He doesn't end with that citation though as it would only make John angrier, (if that's at all possible now). Sherlock has had years to accept that specific disadvantage as his own. It's something that he can't delete, that he doesn't want to purge himself of, not anymore, even with all the troubles and suffering and liability to blackmail it brought along.

"That day, on the roof, I met Moriarty. He gave me a choice: I had to pick one alternative out of Mycroft's words of wisdom for me, and he'd ensure you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade experienced the other half," the detective reveals, voice forcibly calm.

"So either you died and left us a wreck or he had us killed and you what? Mourned?" John asks, just to be sure he understands. He can't entirely keep the scepticism out of his voice at the end because three bloody years, I mean, wouldn't Sherlock have returned or...or just sent a fucking text if he really, really cared about them? Enough to feel grief? To know what grief was?

"Yes," Sherlock chokes out, around the lump his friend's sarcasm suddenly lodges in his throat. "I chose me – obviously. I suspected he'd try something like that, and had preparations in place..." he confesses. Still he is faced with the glower of John's eyes – decidedly not nearer to forgiving him than at the start of this – he lets the truth slip, not exactly voluntarily. "And even if I hadn't, I'd still have done it. I'm too much of a coward to knowingly accept that kind of pain, John." The detective realizes what he put his one friend through; but it would have broken him, beyond repair. John has to understand.

"In my defence, I had no idea you'd be so...affected," Sherlock states. Apparently it's the wrong thing to say. For all his manipulative powers, Sherlock's foot is permanently lodged in his mouth whenever it matters.

"You what?" John hisses back, and that word encompasses a whole lecture. A lecture made of 'what do you think I am?' and 'did you think I was like you?' and, more prominently, 'You machine!'.

"Well, still affected at least; of course I knew I would hurt you, but I really could not see another way that would bring an acceptable result. You are strong, John and no stranger to death… and you had other friends. Lots. I honestly expected you to have overcome my loss at the very least months ago. I thought you'd realize how much better your life was – was bound to be – without me," Sherlock confesses.

So ok, in that last sentence 'thought' should have been replaced with 'was terrified of' for the sake of complete truthfulness, but he can't say it. It's bad enough admitting that the only good thing Sherlock provided was a quota of adrenaline – which John likes – and he fully expected his friend to have found it elsewhere without all the disadvantages entailed by living with Sherlock. It is difficult to admit that his safety net consisted of so few friends that with three bullets it would be entirely torn to shred. He'd lose everyone. Well, lose everyone but Mycroft…and that must be what hell feels like – if it existed in the first place.

"You absolute idiot!" John retorts, and the detective can't discern if he's exasperated or still outraged or fond or all of the above, "You dare say that after you managed to make me miss human bloody body parts in the fridge!".

"What?" he croaks, because it makes no sense. John hated the body parts, especially if he didn't label them correctly and didn't keep them very much away from anything edible...

"I missed you, you daft sod! After a while, with everyone telling me I had to move on, I almost decided to try for another flatmate, you know? Only I didn't want to move on, honestly, so I thought well, why not search for another violinist. I loved when you played when you weren't being purposefully obnoxious. I gave up because no one, no violinist, no chemist, not even a bloody pathologist like Molly would bring home a few limbs to store in the fridge. I wouldn't get you back and trying to delude myself was only harmful," his friend goes from yelling to whispering.

"You got me back," Sherlock points out, which is really not his style, because it's obvious. But he's trying not to think about how close to being replaced he'd come, and his mouth kind of runs by itself.

"So I did," John acknowledges "bit late, though".

"I was busy," the detective replies, defensive.

"Too busy to bloody send one single text, Sherlock? Even Irene managed that," his friend grinds out angrily. Well, Irene had to be reminded, but he's not about to let Sherlock know. The sod would take it as justification.

"I wasn't sure I would survive this case, John, and dying twice on you in a few months didn't seem very good," Sherlock admits. His own survival had never mattered much to him, and absolutely nothing since that day. Either he died along the way, fulfilling Moriarty's condition, and keeping his…friends? Makeshift family? safe, or he managed to completely destroy Moriarty's web, which – again – would make them safe. This trail of reasoning ends in 'Stupid! Now it's too soon! Still too soon! You can still die – you can still get him killed! Idiot!'

Sherlock would get lost in his own thoughts if not for John, who looks like he's just been slapped. Hard.

"So you don't trust me anymore to watch your back. Well, I suppose it's something I needed to know," he says through clenched teeth. Ready to leave, or make Sherlock leave, or another unacceptable outcome.

"This was all to keep you alive! Leading you into mortal danger looked a bit counterproductive, didn't it?" Sherlock yells, arms wildly flaying in desperation. "I was scared, John. Do you want to know why I purposefully kept you in the dark? I fully expected him to cheat too! Why do you think I went off to destroy Moriarty's organization instead of letting it crumble on itself, John? He used you as a smokescreen at the pool. How could I be sure that the man we met wasn't another fake, another victim of blackmail? What if the moment I came back these snipers were still around? I couldn't take the chance." There. All is out in the open. Well, not exactly all (never all), but surely enough of his illogical, unsightly feelings to leave himself vulnerable. Enough to give John ample matter to flay him, should he wish to do so.

"Christ," John swears. Loudly. He had not thought of that. "Did he?" Was Richard Brook another of the madman's victims?

"I'm not sure," he whispers. "The case isn't entirely complete yet. Actually, John – your help would be precious. If you're willing." It's true. He needs his conductor of light. More than ever.

"Back on cases, eh? Let me think about it…" John mocks.

Sherlock should realize he's joking, but he looks so earnest, so intense, John can't keep him wondering for long.

"God yes!" he agrees, with an intentional echo. Is it bad he can remember almost everything they've said to each other? Well, someone has to not delete. Just in case.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock tells, now eager to fill him in the details.

"Wait, who? Ex-colonel Moran?" he blurts out.

"Do you know him?" the detective asks, taken aback.

"Not personally, no. He was something of a dark legend. Deployed in Iraq, best sniper in all the troops – not just ours, mind you – but then involved in the whole Abu Ghraib mess. Didn't see why only the Americans could have fun, or something equally horrible. Obviously dishonourably discharged. I suppose the moral was 'mind, lad, you don't only have to shoot well'," John recounts, chuckling at the end.

"He's been Moriarty's right-hand man for the longest time, and they were…close. That information is sure. And now… what do you think, John? Would he concoct a mystery with Moriarty's gift just for old time's sake, when he could act much more directly? Or is it a sign Moriarty himself is still alive and bored and wants to play?" Sherlock asks, hoping John won't be angry at Sherlock's assumption that he can enter the torturer's mind like Sherlock and Moriarty did all the time with each other. Of course John isn't like Moran ('strong morals'), but Sherlock wasn't/isn't entirely like Moriarty too…is he?

"The Adair case," the doctor replies.

"Obviously, John. Now, would he?" Sherlock replies, dismissive and impatient and so very back – to normal, to the case, to John that the doctor gets the urge to celebrate. He forces himself to concentrate instead. If Sherlock was Moriarty (playing… experimenting? on live people) and John could torture someone innocent just for kicks (ugh), would he want to laugh at Lestrade running in circles just because Sherlock would have liked it? Because That Day - the anniversary of Armageddon, as long as Moran and he were concerned - was coming soon? Because he needed to kill the man, not only himself - liver first? (He's certain that Moran is getting very regularly his sister and father's example, John would have been an alcoholic too).

"He would," John decides "sentiment, Sherlock". (Just in case his friend still has problem with that; he definitely seemed a bit more…emotive, but John won't trust it to continue in case mode.)

"Not to mention, Moriarty wouldn't have waited three years for a nice, clever trick like that. He'd go crazy in the meantime. His projects always made front page – hard to miss."

"Only when he wanted to…and what if he relocated for a time too?" Sherlock inquires, unsatisfied.

The spider's web was mostly hidden, as he has learned. Still, Moriarty, like every genius, needs an audience, and he managed to get one at least every few months. Sherlock is just scared that his nemesis might have been a few steps ahead of him, all the time, mocking, waiting for him to break and go back home and fail and oh God what if it's happened right now? His eyes go wildly to the windows – he hasn't even closed the curtains, stupid, STUPID!

John sees through Sherlock, and it's startling, because Sherlock? Transparent? But he still sees fear and self-doubt and needs it to stop.

"He would still have made the news. It would still have been all over the internet. If you haven't noticed him – hell, if I haven't noticed anything weird enough to be from him – he's gone. We contend with Moran. We can take Moran down, right, Sherlock?" he says, calm like still water. He'd like to touch Sherlock, to reassure...both of them, honestly, but after his earlier outburst, he's not sure that reaching for him would be so calming.

"Obviously," the detective replies, showing the anger (which is at himself, only at his own shameful behaviour) and hiding the gratitude (swallowing back the 'thank you John' that almost came out) and isn't he messed up?

"Do you have a plan?" John asks, voice still soothing.

"Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. The BBC and Conan Doyle share Sherlock & Co. I play with them. And Ennui Enigma makes it readable. :-)_

"No! Playing sitting ducks doesn't qualify as a plan, Sherlock!" the doctor growls seconds later.

"Not us. Mycroft has access to the latest robots.

Twins, with natural-like movements...or so he says," the detective points out.

"Oh". John wants to say, 'why didn't you say so before', but he knows that he didn't give Sherlock enough time.

"Mycroft got them for the both of us. That way we could understand whether Moriarty's plan was still operative according to which one Moran aimed for, but I was reluctant to use them," Sherlock explains.

"Why?" John queries.

"Because I didn't mean to show up now, much less explain. Mycroft was supposed to have kidnapped you while the plan unfolded but in the end I didn't trust him to be able to hold you if you didn't want to comply."

John doesn't hear the obvious compliment because his mind is still trying to process the first half of the sentence. "You what?" he roars. Data processing failed.

"I was not to contact you until it was completely safe. It was the only thing Mycroft and I agreed on in years. It was too big of a risk. I was just..." Weak. Stupid. Acting out of instinct, like an animal... Any of these would fit.

"You- wanted – me - safe? I know this should be good but Sherlock - it is laughable. You didn't delete our first case, did you?" The doctor is suddenly suspicious.

"Of course not," Sherlock whispers earnestly. He has been lost so long. If he had deleted anything about John he would have been completely adrift. "I know that you're strong, and not afraid of danger, but I wasn't protecting you. I was protecting myself, John. If I lost you, I'd need reformatting," he confesses. He's not just Sherlock anymore. He's half of something better, greater, a weird sort of John and Sherlock hybrid which is still very much a species that should have his own binomial nomenclature (how do you translate Sherlock in Latin?). Breaking that unit permanently would have broken him too. Surely his friend will understand. John is still his friend, right?

Sherlock has been slipping horribly since he saw his doctor again. Doing what he shouldn't, and saying more than he means to admit. He needs to control himself.

"Oh. Ok. I get it," John replies, still a bit doubtful though not entirely. He'll need time to make his peace with the fact that Sherlock would rather trick and shield him than work with him, but he understands that overwhelming need to protect. Hell, he shares it.

A quick stab of fear slices through Sherlock. What if his last line was too open? If John has read through him entirely, won't his friend hate him?

But John is still talking, "But you are here now and we're closing this case together, aren't we?"

"Yes. Yes," the sleuth replies fervently. He has needed this. For years.

Later that day, they wait in the empty apartment facing theirs. After explosions and sniper tenants, the owner has had an extremely hard time renting it. There's talk of ghosts, though it's not sure whose. John wonders if that's the doing of the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock expects Moran to try a quick assassination, barely stopping to fire, mafia style. Surely the man wouldn't linger for a hit on Baker Street? It's bound to cause a ruckus, after all. John isn't as sure, but he hasn't spent years hunting Moriarty's web, either, so he defers to higher authority. Dimmock's men are lying in ambush in the street, ready to stop Moran after his attempt. Sherlock would have preferred Lestrade, but the DI was one of the targets and hence not safe to contact. Dimmock luckily knew better than argue with resurrected people.

John should have spoken up. Moran is a sniper first and foremost, and this place is just too tempting. He has slacked off – and he's not expecting anyone to be there. That's the only reason they can effectively hide – barely breathing – in the shadows of the empty room.

After the shot, Sherlock pounces on Moran. The following scuffle seems to quickly turn against the detective. Moran is heavier and trained for combat, even if he's shocked. When Sherlock is half-restrained half-strangled (and free from a bullet hole because Moran brought an unwieldy rifle), John (who didn't wait; he's simply not as much of a cat as his friend) calmly steps in, pressing his gun against Moran's nape and says evenly, "Give me an excuse, Colonel." That stops Moran. Sherlock is quick to disengage himself from his hold and call the policemen.

While they're coming, he croaks, "What happened to Moriarty?"

The Colonel takes a look at him and laughs harshly. "Oh. That's sweet. You cheat death, like the devil himself, but now he's haunting you. Why would I need to kill you, uh, genius?"

Sherlock breathes more freely while John growls, "Not on my watch." _Not again_. The doctor is only too happy when Dimmock is there to remove temptation.

"Are you okay?" he queries the moment they're alone.

"I'm fine, John."

"Seriously?" the doctor insists.

"Yes," Sherlock says with a put-upon sigh.

"You're not downplaying it as usual, are you?" John asks – again. He's behaving ridiculously, maybe, but he does have Sherlock's back, , and the idiot did manage to get himself half-killed first thing upon his return.

"Oh for the love of God! Examine me if it'll help, John!" the detective bursts out. There's a limit to the nagging he can take.

"Sorry," Watson says, a bit sheepish, because he is behaving ridiculously and knows it. "But I'll take you up on that offer."

And he does, because he needs it. He needs to feel Sherlock's heartbeat, to check compulsively that this isn't a dream. That the danger just past hasn't destroyed everything again because John was too damn slow. Sherlock is really back. John has just saved him. The universe has finally righted itself. He forces himself to be quick, not linger.

Sherlock is surprisingly meek. Perhaps he realizes that it helps the doctor. Perhaps it's simply a bit of normalcy they're regaining, and he's enjoying John's care. What with the case distracting them, John's lingering bitterness at being tricked, and his hesitancy to touch after attacking his friend, they've been entirely too distant.

When the doctor is done, Sherlock quips, "Satisfied?"

"For now," John replies, a warning note in his voice. He'll be unsatisfied soon. He'll be unsatisfied for months about Sherlock's health. It will take months to regain the confidence that the detective isn't going to disappear into thin air.

"Let's go home." Sherlock tugs at John' hand like an impatient child. And John goes along, like he's always done. He doesn't point out that Sherlock has no right to say it. A quick burst of happiness – one of many that day – warms the detective. He realizes that just because John went along with the case, it doesn't mean that he's forgiven. But every hint that he's allowed to be back sparks bright fireworks inside him.

They haven't actually seen their doubles yet. Mycroft was probably worried that his brother would tamper with them. His minions installed them in 221B after the legitimate tenant had left. As a result, John is in for a fair bit of trauma. 'Guaranteed twin' wasn't an empty boast. The doctor sees himself sitting in his armchair (later, he'll wonder if Mycroft has required the perfection of even such a detail from the things' programmer), looking utterly numb. Emotions aren't in the package deal, understandably. The problem is that he has seen that face in the mirror for months. And there's something worse. Sherlock...Sherlock lying on the floor, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. The doctor's eyes dart quickly to his friend (the flesh and blood one) to dispel the nightmare.

Sherlock does not appear as engrossed – or as spooked – by the situation. "Let's bin the rubbish," he prompts and jostles his doppelganger roughly.

"Careful," John utters before he's aware of it. "Perhaps it can be repaired. I'm sure Mycroft would like a brother who does what he's told."

Sherlock snickers, and then they're laughing together until they're breathless. After, the sleuth fires a quick text and in seconds they're relieved of the useless goods. Mycroft's men even repair the broken window as a bonus.

Once they're alone and settled, John asks, "So, what are you in the mood for? You do still eat after cases, don't you?"

Which is a bit silly, because of course he does. What better moment to eat than after a case, when his brain is quiet enough to acknowledge its transport's needs? Sherlock still has to feed himself every now and then; he's human after all. In a way, it's sad that John is unsure about this – he doesn't dare presume that he knows Sherlock anymore.

The detective doesn't bite back, 'Obviously'. Nor does he say how heartbreaking the existence of his friend's uncertainty feels. Instead he just says, "I'm sure Angelo will deliver for you."

John is left wondering if it is an intentional echo of their start. Is it an attempt to press Ctrl-Alt-Del on their relationship from Sherlock's part? Probably not. John can still appreciate the parallel. He hurries to order before Sherlock changes his idea about the menu (or about eating at all).


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: nothing mine but the angst. The cast is shared between Conan Doyle and the BBC fanfictioners (errr...screenwriters, but really that's what they are: they're writing AU/AT of Conan Doyle's works). Now officially AU but the Johnlock romance isn't canon anyway _

Angelo's delivery boy grins, promising John that his date will find the meal to be a 'veritable love poem'. The misconception makes him awash with nostalgia.

"You didn't protest," Sherlock drawls when it's safe, inordinately pleased with the fact.

"It was easier than to explain that my best friend was just resurrected," he replies.

John wonders why is he doing this to himself. Not lying – omitting. Now he has a golden opportunity to finally say it.

Right, because Sherlock has already shot him down like lightning once. If he's rejected over Italian food again, John will be put off pasta for good, and that would be a pity. Of course, John has realized that he's in love with his best friend. He doesn't lie to himself anymore. Denial became impossible at the same time that it became pointless, or so John had thought. Only now he has a second chance. Or does he?

John has not changed since Sherlock rejected him. (Hell! If anything he is older and more damaged.) If his friend wasn't interested before why should he be now? So what if maybe the detective seemed more emotive earlier – more easily rattled. John still knows better than to presume a full 180° turn about in feelings.

It's the first time that Sherlock was "friendzoned", and he doesn't like it one bit. It is good, certainly, that John still considers them friends (best friends, even). Sherlock didn't delude himself into thinking that was a given. And if he _had_ mistaken their relationship for granted, John's initial,violent reaction would have disabused him of that misconception. Going back to friends is really all he had allowed himself to hope – he's realistic. The lack of John's customary "I'm not-his-date reaction" gave him hope. A sneaky, vicious hope reared its head. And now, being put back in his place hurt.

So Sherlock just nods. It's easier, he too didn't really want to let Angelo know that he's back right now. He takes the plates. He's eating with John after a successful case and it has to be enough. (Even if it isn't.) He might as well get used, well, re-used, to this. Oh ow he hates Moriarty right now for forcing his eyes to open to his own atrophied (or so he'd believed) heart's true feelings.

They're eating, but much more subdued than the usual post-case dinner. They're not high on adrenaline. (The rush dissipated much more quickly than usual). They're both lost in their own heartaches and half reeling in the sheer disbelief that the sentence of eternal separation has been remitted. They can escape their living hells. They're still not in heaven, will have to face a quite painful purgatory, maybe, but the previous fractured existence they called life has ended. It's not another dream.

John's mobile rings – a ridiculous sappy tune – and Sherlock forces himself not to curl his lip. If she survived long enough to deserve a special ringtone, she must be more than just a number in the endless list of so-called 'girlfriends'. She must somehow be important. Then again, without Sherlock to break them apart, John's love life might have more naturally flourished.

"No Mary, I didn't get hurt...I forgot our date...Yes, I know that I'm not helping my cause. But he's back...You know who, Mary. Him...No, I've not relapsed. Don't cry. You won't need to have me sectioned. I promise."

Sherlock has no idea how to feel. That not even the delivery boy's words failed to reminded John of this Mary, is flattering, of course. That he's still 'he' for John, no specification needed, makes his heart soar. But the way John tries to appease his girlfriend is just as annoying as in the past. Perhaps more because now he knows why he used to find it so blasted irritating.

When he hears the threat of sectioning, he snatches the phone out of his friend's hands. "One would think that trusting one's partner would be a requirement for a romantic relationship. Of course John is being honest, though I have no idea why. It's Sherlock Holmes speaking, in case you haven't figured it out yet." He hangs up.

"Sherlock!"John's voice isn't furious. Not even entirely angry. It sounds like he's almost comforted by Sherlock once again causing a row with his partner. But surely the detective is reading him wrong, hearing what he wants to hear, because the next thing to come out of the doctor's mouth is, "I meant to ask her to marry me."

It's a low blow, and devastatingly hurtful, but Sherlock manages to school his features into perfect indifference, hiding the anguish. At least he dearly hopes so.

"If she's worth it she'll forgive you. Today was all my fault anyway," he assures John a few moments later, when he trusts himself to talk and not wail.

He wants to do what he does best, break them up and ruin John's love life, but he can't, can he? He already needs all the forgiveness the doctor can possibly spare. He can't make his friend angrier. John can always take back his 'friends still' choice. Sherlock left, and John moved on. It's good for him. It's healthy. Healthy has never been Sherlock's area, and he can't make himself be happy for it.

He wants to ask John when he intends to formally get engaged and if they plan to live together after that. How long does he have? He's just back. He can't give John up again so soon. It's not fair. He doesn't ask. Living like Damocles is bad enough. Living with this countdown to a Johnless state inside his head would be too much.

"Not fault. It's the best thing that happened to me in years, Sherlock. One of the few things you must never dare to apologize for," John quips.

He has no idea why he's told Sherlock of his aspiration. He hopes that Sherlock will notice the past tense – well, Sherlock notices everything. Was he falling into old behavioural schemes and using Mary – who certainly didn't deserve it – like every girl before her to keep Sherlock blinded to his real feelings? The doctor still wonders how he managed to do that – and blind himself on top of it – when each and every one of his girlfriends figured it out sooner or later. Jeannette said it best, but then again, she was a teacher.

And now he has to break up with Mary. He thought she could give him a normal life, but he's gotten Life – real life – back. She would never tolerate always being second. Rightly so. That will be awkward to explain after his earlier declaration. He refuses to lie and push the blame on her.

Sherlock smiles blindingly at his words. John might not have realized it, but he's just ranked his return over meeting this Mary. Maybe he doesn't mean it, but Sherlock still can't keep the happiness down.

John smiles back reflexively. God, he's missed this.

_P.S. I apologize for mistreating Mary now and in the future to everyone who's fallen in love with her after season 3, but I promised Johnlock and intend to deliver. _


End file.
